


And The Wheel of Fate Spins Onward

by WhereTheMoonShinesBright



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, In like a strictly canonical sense, M/M, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhereTheMoonShinesBright/pseuds/WhereTheMoonShinesBright
Summary: "The Shepherd’s were hardly worthy of being called a standing army, and even if they could acquire a proper militia, Ylisse would be at the mercy of Regna Ferox for a capable tactician. Somehow he figured that the khans didn’t have something of that sort. He was lucky to have even retained their aid after he’d lost partial use of his right arm. Then came the issue of money handling, organization—Too many things in which Chrom had no expertise. He was a commander at best, and Exalt at most— Both were mere titles that he now understood held little meaning. He was no proper king and no proper tactician."In a different timeline, Robin and Chrom don't meet until after the war between Plegia and Ylisse is in full force. In a different timeline, Robin is primed and ready to be made Grima's vessel.
Relationships: Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	And The Wheel of Fate Spins Onward

The note had arrived at midday. A short worded summons to a town far beyond the Ylissean encampment. The proposal: a parley, between the tactician of the Ylissean army and the Plegian army; A concession that the Ylissean tactician could bring a second if they wished to ensure their safety. When Chrom had read it, it had seemed at first to be an obvious trap, and then a cruel insult. Of course, the Plegians must have known that the Shepherds were short a tactician. And still, it was a chance for Chrom to end the war without any further bloodshed. He doubted the Plegian tactician would offer his terms of peace, King Gangrel’s head mounted on a pike, but all the better if he could make his position clear.

And so he set off with his retainer, two hours after midday, to meet the Plegian tactician and supposedly make peace with him. 

“Milord, are you sure? This could be a trap,” Frederick cautioned, as though Chrom hadn’t had the forethought to consider whether or not the clandestine meeting was a trap or not. 

“That’s why I brought you along. Keep your guard up.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, however, two people won’t be enough to fight off a hoard of men should they be here to capture you.” Frederick took a rough grain to his voice. If the situation weren’t enough, Chrom knew that being without his horse made him nervous. “Or kill you.”

It might have been beneficial to let Frederick take his horse along with them, if Frederick’s paranoia wasn’t falsely laid. And yet, a horse would have attracted too much attention in the flat expansive deserts of Plegia. Even from where they were, Chrom could turn and see the war camps of either side though both were a few leagues away from each other. Their current location was far off from both camps, so much so that the emptiness between the glow of their respective campfires seemed small as they waxed and waned on the horizon. It was disconcerting, but it was also comforting so far as this surprise arrangement went.

The cloaked figure they were meant to meet was alone in a clearing that must have once been a town square. The abandoned town which had likely been ravaged in the last war between the two countries and left unclaimed ever after. Cloth awnings stank with the smell of sun rot even in the cool night air, and the piles of bricks sagged like wet clay as they slipped free of their diminishing mortar. If the houses once had roofs or doors they had been burn away or toppled inward, allowing the light from the full moon to fill each empty abode and show clearly that the vacancies were left unfilled by Plegian soldiers. 

If it was an ambush or a trap, it was impeccably laid or terribly planned. If anything, the figure that had met them was nondescript. The robes that he wore were common among plegians, both in its grimleal motifs and its wide hood which served to keep off the intense desert sun. The skin beneath was tan but had obviously had little use of the sun from beneath the hood, and the garments on the figure were a combination of freshly cut linens and silks, and battle softened leather. It seemed contradictory in its way. The figure appeared to be replicating the look of a battle mage, but no common soldier would have been able to keep garments that nice, especially in Plegia.

“Stay alert.” was the harsh whisper passed to Frederick, and Chrom made a point of putting his hand on the pommel of Falchion as the last of the distance closed between them. His arm was still in shambles from the attack on the Ylissean palace, though he knew it looked in good repair to anyone who was not aware of the injury.

The figures shoulders slumped as Chrom approached, as though his appearance was a great relief. “I didn’t think you would come. We have much to talk about, Exalt.” 

Chrom cringed at his newly inherited title before narrowing his eyes. The figure’s voice carried the same snip in it as Gangrel’s, but it lacked that subtle sadism that so defined the king’s. It was the voice of the tactician from the ravine, when King Gangrel had hosted the ransom for Maribelle. He carried no tome and no sword, nor any noticeable means for causing harm. Unless the water skein strapped to his belt was filled with poison, or oil. 

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” 

“No.” Chrom watched the man’s mouth tighten, biting at his lip for a moment. “I hope not. I suspect I was followed by someone, but I don’t think she intends any harm.”

Chrom felt the air around him stifle, the tension Frederick had as he firmed his stance, and then, as if out of a shadow, a figure appeared. She was pale for a plegian and gave off the impression of being emaciated, though closer inspection assured that it was only her demeanor that was hollow rather than the whole of her body. Her dark black bangs hid over half of her face, and she held a tome flush against her chest and stomach as though she were trying to hide her exposed form.

Chrom exposed Falchion’s hilt, and the woman drew back as if hissing. 

“Tharja.” the tacticians voice was stern. “Are you the only one who followed me?”

Tharja’s eyes quickly glanced over, before returning to Chrom. “I will end you if you so much as think about laying a hand on Robin.”

Chrom, though trying to exercise patience was beginning to grow weary of these plegians. The position was already precarious, enough. He drew Falchion. “If you plegians are here to spring another failed trap, we will cut it down just like the last one. Don’t think I have any qualm putting a sword through you after what you did to Emm.”

He felt himself choke on mention of her name.

Tharja began to rear back once more letting the tome fall open in her hand and Frederick properly took up his lance, aimed at her. Her mouth turned up into a snarl. “Why you—“  
  
“Peace!” The tactician— Robin— threw himself between the two. “I am not here to fight with you, Exalt. Only to exchange words.”

The tension remained, all at an impasse. Chrom knew he could play this scene in his favor. His sword through Robin’s stomach, Frederick’s lance throughTharja’s chest, and suddenly the plegian army would be deprived of an undoubtedly significant asset. 

He could also feel Emmeryn’s disappointment for even considering it. The tactician had met him in peace and so far he was doing his best to maintain that peace. He lowered his sword and, seeing that Frederick was still at the ready, gestured him to lower his spear as well. Tharja’s tome was still open but the air was no longer buzzing with her energy and she was looking down at the ground as though she were ashamed. Robin turned and gingerly took the tome from her hands, and then turned once more and extended it to Chrom. 

Chrom understood what it really was. Full surrender. Words put into action. He pushed the dark bound book back towards into Robin’s arms. “What was so important that you wanted to discuss in person?”

Robin smiled, lifted the hood from his head, and looked Chrom in the eye properly, for the first time. “I wanted to tell you how to win this war.”

“Surely you don’t expect us to believe that.” Frederick finally chimed in.

For once Chrom could agree with Frederick’s caution. He could understand if it had been anyone else trying to switch sides, but the royal tactician? That was certainly a trap. 

“I don’t have any way to prove myself.” Robin sounded assured despite his position. “I can promise you however that if my sister takes over as tactician I’ll be able to tell you every move she makes.”

“Your sister?”

Robin tensed, obviously considering whether or not he should divulge the subsequent information. “Aversa.”

“Milord, this is absurd.” Frederick sounded outraged now, and though Chrom knew his knight would never take up arms outside of what was ordered, he could sense Frederick’s anxiety about the situation.

“Give me one battle. I can show you. If you lose—“ Robin stopped for a moment in obvious wonderment over whether or not he would regret this promise. “If you lose, then you can kill me, or lock me away, or whatever you consider proper punishment for treason. I won’t fault you.”

“Robin!” Tharja hissed, and Chrom felt the desert air grow cold at her word. 

Robin looked back at her with a stern silence and Chrom felt as though the world around him shifted back to normal. Then all was silent as he thought about the proposal.

The Shepherd’s were hardly worthy of being called a standing army, and even if they could acquire a proper militia, Ylisse would be at the mercy of Regna Ferox for a capable tactician. Somehow he figured that the khans didn’t have something of that sort. He was lucky to have even retained their aid after he’d lost partial use of his right arm. Then came the issue of money handling, organization—Too many things in which Chrom had no expertise. He was a commander at best, and Exalt at most— Both were mere titles that he now understood held little meaning. He was no proper king and no proper tactician.

“You can’t seriously be considering this.” Frederick began to chide once more at his side. “Might I remind you that one battle is more than enough to end us, if it even takes the charlatan that long to turn his back on you.”

Chrom hardly offered Frederick more than a sidelong glance in response. “Why do you want to help us? There must be a reason for betraying your king. Your country? Your family? How can I rely on someone who’s betrayed everyone else?”

“Even if Plegia wins this war there will be a coup. King Gangrel has no children, meaning that the rightful heir to the throne will be the Grand Hierophant, Validar.”

Chrom felt uneasy of the certainty Robin relayed that information. “That would be bad, I take it?”

“It will be worse if Plegia wins the war. If Plegia loses, at least you will have time to think about what follows.”

“You’re not making sense. I’ve agreed to hear you out, so speak plainly.”

“If Plegia falls then its current Grand Hierophant will become reagent. If the next in the succession rises to power he’ll drag the entire world into the depths of war again.” Robin smiled sardonically. “Plegia has seen enough war. I can’t stand by and watch it descend into war again.”

“I see.” Chrom hesitated a moment. Everything about Frederick’s demeanor was trying to signal not-so-subtly that it was about time that they leave, but… he found himself wanting to trust the tactician. Or maybe he did in fact trust Robin and found himself wanting to remain skeptical. Many thing in Chrom’s mind were controlled by fate. Here he was gifted an easy victory, it was tempting to believe the Gods had finally stepped in on his side. But whether or not he could rely on that…

He turned to leave, only momentarily glancing at Frederick’s suddenly relieved face before he called over his shoulder. “Don’t think I’ll hesitate to kill you and your friend if this is a trap.”

“Milord—“  
  
“Peace, Frederick.” He sighed. “See to it that neither of them have access to arms and that they’re both kept on the outskirts of the camp.”

“Forgive me, but you’re making a mistake.”

“I give you full permission to apprehend them or watch them as much as you would like.”

Frederick considered this unusual clemency to his wary nature. “Very well.”

Chrom did not glance back to see if the tactician followed. For a few yards the only sound of footsteps remained to be his and Frederick’s, and then there was the soft sound of crunching sand as the two plegians followed in suit. 

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this fic a long time ago, and I was going through my drafts folder the other day and came across it. I might leave it at 2 or 3 chapters if no one's super into it, but I do have it outlined for a lot more.
> 
> As always if you want to talk with me you can find me @chinupking on twitter


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